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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391510">upon a boston winter</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes'>JennaCupcakes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(a little bit), Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternative Universe - Lovecraftian Horror, Gay Clubbing Like It's 1920 and You're a Repressed Bisexual, M/M, enemies to colleagues to lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:54:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391510</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Then you don’t believe in the emerald’s curse?”<br/>Francis sent a glare towards Fitzjames that should have seen him wither at the root like a flower left without water for too long. “You’re making that up.”<br/>Fitzjames shrugged. “What reason would I have to do that?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Francis Crozier is a private detective that caters to Boston’s rich and powerful. James Fitzjames… well, he’s something else.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fall Fitzier Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>upon a boston winter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamidog/gifts">kamidog</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The wonderful kamidog's prompt said "Private Eye AU (They're competing private detectives that end up being hired for the same job)". I present you a 1920s detective AU that is held together by the thinnest of plots. I hope you enjoy it, and forgive the way this deviated slightly from the original prompt! I had a blast writing it though, so I hope that counts for something.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The matter was this: Francis had been spending a perfectly nice evening until he spotted James Fitzjames by the bar.</p><p>It was bitterly cold in Boston that winter, but somewhat less terrible than the wet and miserable autumn had been. When the New England winter had settled in, it froze the bay and the last bit of moisture in the air. Inside the Parker House Hotel’s grand ballroom, none of this cold could be felt of course—the hotel’s central heating kept even the large ballroom snug, and the ceiling was glittering with newly installed electric lamplight against the winter dark.</p><p>The celebration was invitation only, and the guest list was quite exclusive. Francis would not be moving in such high circles were it not for the fact that Jane Franklin herself had extended an invitation—though Francis’s role was not quite that of a guest. No, he was here on business.</p><p>James Fitzjames, resident itch on Francis’s mind, was many things, but he was one thing in particular: a favoured guest. He moved in Boston’s upper circles like a shark through water—always grinning, always moving, a glass in one hand and a lady on the other, and a story on his lips. People liked him. Francis thought he was foppish, even vain, always dressed in the latest fashion, something continental and scandalous. It was rumoured he had once appeared at a ball in women’s fashion, and that this had gone unnoticed until a dramatic reveal at midnight. His origins were as much part of the theatrics around his personality as the rest of him—no one knew where he came from, and James wouldn’t speak of it. Like as not, Francis thought with a scoff, he was just from Stow, and kept up the secrecy because people would stop inviting him if he didn’t. Francis knew it wasn’t the only thing that James was hiding.</p><p>James was dressed sharply tonight, in a suit that clung to the lines of his body as though his tailor had moulded him into it, emphasising his broad shoulders and strong arms. His long, shining curls nearly reached his chin and softened the sharp, masculine lines of his face. When Francis spotted him, he was chatting with one of the Barrow boys, laughing with his head thrown back and his eyes crinkled, revealing a pale neck that invited Francis to wrap his hands around it. It reminded Francis of a different room he’d found himself sharing with James a couple of weeks ago—darker, less well-heated, with cigarette smoke hanging in the air.</p><p>Before James could spot him, Francis turned away.</p>
<hr/><p>He was in the kitchen of Parker House, trying to wheedle information out of Tom Blanky, when James tracked him down. Evidently Francis hadn’t been as successful at melting into the background of the celebrations as he’d thought.</p><p>“And you’re sure that Evans had an eye on the back door the entire time? No one could have gotten in?”</p><p>Blanky, his maître d’ uniform half undone, rolled his eyes and clasped Francis’s shoulder. “Trust that I’ve got it in hand, Frank.”</p><p>His eyes flickered to the side. “Your boyfriend’s here, it seems.”</p><p>Francis turned; his brow creased in a frown. Of course, it was James standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Francis with his arms crossed in front of his chest and an enigmatic smile on his face.</p><p>With a last nod of thanks to Blanky, Francis strode over, seizing James by the arm and dragging him out of the kitchen, lest the staff learn some new and creative insults that Blanky would later pin on him.</p><p>The back end of Parker House was decidedly less gilded, and Francis felt more at ease than in the richly decorated corridors with their plush carpets and ornate chandeliers.</p><p>“You’re not supposed to be back here,” he hissed, suspicious of how willingly James came along, giving nothing away besides that blasted smile.</p><p>“Oh, but you are?”</p><p>“I am <em>working</em>,” Francis said.</p><p>James shrugged. “So am I.”</p><p>Francis scoffed, finally letting go of James’s arm. He turned.</p><p>He was a private detective. Perhaps it wasn’t the most glamorous profession, at least until the family jewels went missing or a servant absconded with embarrassing letters. Well-known families had paid Francis good money for his services. He had built a reputation for being dependable and discrete. He did good work. <em>Real</em>work.</p><p>James, however—well. He called himself a <em>medium</em>. Which, in Francis’s mind, said it all.</p><p>“<em>You’re</em> working?” The corridor was empty save for them. Francis crossed his arms. “What case are you on, then?”</p><p>“The emerald,” James said with a nonchalant shrug, “Same as you, I suppose.”</p><p>Francis felt the blood rush to his face. The shame of it was a bitter medicine, but worse was having to look at James as he digested it. Jane had said—</p><p>“She didn’t tell you, did she?”</p><p>James’s jaw was working, like he was chewing the inside of his cheek. An irritating habit. Francis sent him his most despising glare.</p><p>“I wouldn’t have agreed to work it if she’d told me, and she knew that.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>James dropped his gaze. God, he was so young—couldn’t be halfway through his thirties, with a full head of hair and teeth that gleamed when he smiled, even though it never reached his eyes.</p><p>“A shame, really,” James added as Francis seethed. “I thought a professional like you might be able to put aside preconceived notions in the interest of solving a case. Perhaps I was mistaken.”</p><p>“There’s no <em>case</em>. I’m here to guard the emerald, and make sure that it remains in the hand of the Franklins.”</p><p>Jane had shown him the letter herself. The police had dusted it for prints and found nothing. The handwriting was ornate but matched no letters in the Franklins circle of friends, and no one else had been invited. Nevertheless, the anonymous author, whoever they were, had informed Jane Franklin quite politely that he would relieve her of the emerald that had been in her family’s possession since her great-grandfather brought it from India.</p><p>“Then you don’t believe in its curse?”</p><p>Francis sent a glare towards Fitzjames that should have seen him wither at the root like a flower left without water for too long<em>. </em>“You’re making that up.”</p><p>James shrugged. “What reason would I have to do that?”</p><p>Francis stabbed an accusing finger at him. “Is that how you got yourself invited? By making up some story about a curse?”</p><p>He found it hard to believe that James would sink so low.</p><p>“Her great-grandfather, her grandfather, her father. All died before their sixtieth birthday, under circumstances that the family described as… suspect.” The smile was back on James’s face. “What’s today?”</p><p>“Jane’s birthday,” Francis said.</p><p>“Her <em>sixtieth</em> birthday,” James added, pleased.</p><p>Francis passed a hand over his face. “You’re enjoying this.”</p><p>“You aren’t?” James raised his eyebrows.</p><p>“I’m here to prevent a robbery. You’re apparently here to prevent <em>murder</em>.”</p><p>“Have you never delighted in your work then? Felt the thrill of the chase?”</p><p>Something in James’s tone gave Francis pause. There was a deeper, more luscious quality to it—like dark chocolate or velvet curtains, exquisite and exclusive. James stepped closer. Francis could smell cologne—something costly and pleasing to the nose—and turned his head away.</p><p>“I saw you at the Lighthouse Café,” James whispered.</p><p>Francis flinched, but the split second gave him away. It had been a moment of weakness, he’d told himself. Weakness and shameful curiosity. He wasn’t like James or the men he met there. It had occurred to him in that smoke-filled room that the only thing separating him from James and the other men was the partaking in the act itself, and not for a lack of wanting.</p><p>Francis swallowed. “I don’t know that place.”</p><p>“I know you saw me.” James pitched his voice lower. “Saw you looking.”</p><p>“I don’t know what you think you saw—”</p><p>James’s eyes flickered obscenely down to where Francis’s body was betraying him, fuelled by nothing more than the suggestion of warmth from James’s body and the memory of how he’d looked in the middle of that club, the finest of a line of fine men, draped over his silver-haired companion, laughing a full-belly laugh that Francis could only describe as <em>exaggerated</em>.</p><p>“I know what I’m seeing now.”</p><p>Francis seized James’s arm; dragged him through the nearest door. It turned out to be a storage closet, sacks of flour stacked neatly on the narrow shelves. James fumbled for a light switch; found none.</p><p>“You have me at your mercy, Mr. Crozier,” he noted laconically.</p><p>Francis noticed his palms were sweaty—he flexed his fingers, balled them into fists. He’d wanted to shut James up, keep him from spilling some damning secret in the middle of the hallway. Instead, it seemed James had succeeded in shutting <em>him</em> up. “Just—”</p><p>He swore, hearing the low answering rumble of James’s amusement. A hand came up, and slowly caressed Francis’s biceps. Francis felt the brush of James’s thumb as though it were a searing hot iron.</p><p>“Unless you’d like me to take charge of the proceedings…?”</p><p>Some light caught the glint in James’s eyes. Francis held them. Who would fault him if he did?</p><p>He nodded. James squeezed his arm.</p><p>“Lovely.”</p><p>Francis thought he was merely making his approval known, but then James’s hand came up to cradle the side of Francis’s face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He leaned in, and Francis closed his eyes—he would charge into danger, face thugs and dark woods, but this was beyond him. James’s lips on his were warm and gentle.</p><p>He crowded Francis against the shelves. Francis—terrified in his arousal—raised his hands until he could clutch at James’s midsection. He felt like he was holding on for dear life. James was solid under his suit, firmly muscled and sturdy. The weight of him was pinning him in place. Francis gasped.</p><p>This was what he’d pictured, entering the Lighthouse Café, even if he wouldn’t have been able to admit it. He had never imagined, however, that there was anyone in this world who would want him like he wanted this. He had never imagined it might be someone as handsome as James.</p><p>“I waited for you in the back, you know?”</p><p>Francis was glad when James let off his mouth. His breath was coming shallow and hard, and his hands were shaking. James’s stubbled cheek rubbed against Francis’s neck as James whispered in his ear. “I thought you saw me leave. Wanted you to follow me.”</p><p>“I did,” Francis said, “I did see you leave.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you come?”</p><p>Francis jolted as James bit down lightly on his neck. His prick was hard, pressing up against James’s thigh, and he could feel a spurt of his own excitement dribble forth shamefully from his prick. He struggled for a breath that wouldn’t quite reach as deeply into his lungs as he needed it to.</p><p>“Didn’t think you—”</p><p>
  <em>Didn’t think you wanted me. Never pictured a man like you—young and tall and masculine—might want me, old and balding as I was.</em>
</p><p>He grimaced.</p><p>“Didn’t think I <em>what</em>, Francis?”</p><p>Whether to redress his balance or tease Francis, he shifted the leg that was pressing up against Francis’s prick. It forced a groan out of Francis.</p><p>“Didn’t think it was for me.”</p><p>James pulled back, a look of sly surprise on his face. “Would you care to be convinced of the opposite?”</p><p>Francis made a shaky motion with his hand. “You have me at your mercy,” he noted in an unsuccessful attempt at humour, calling back to James’s earlier words.</p><p>Another hand came up to cradle Francis’s face, and James kissed him deeply. Francis’s breath quickened again as James’s tongue pushed into his mouth and the pressure of James’s thigh on his prick increased by the smallest degree. James rocked steadily into him, a reassuring thing of weight and pressure against Francis’s prick. Francis could feel it leaking and would have sunk into the wall for shame, weren’t it for James still holding on to his face with both hands while probing deeply into Francis’s mouth with his tongue. “Ah,” Francis breathed out into his mouth, feeling close to being unmade by the surety with which James handled him. “Christ, Fitzjames, I—"</p><p>“What?”</p><p>James pulled back, but kept his thigh where it was, Francis trembling against it and trying to keep himself from humping it like a dog. He was so—he just needed—</p><p>“Close,” Francis panted, embarrassment colouring his face. He was glad for the darkness that obscured them.</p><p>James kissed him like he wanted to devour Francis. Francis grunted, a panicked noise because hadn’t James heard, Francis would spend in his trousers if he didn’t—</p><p>James’s hands made short work of Francis’s belt, and drew out his prick. Francis very nearly sobbed in relief at the press of those long fingers on his prick, pulling at him in self-assured strokes. Francis closed his eyes again, and so almost missed as James went to his knees until he felt the hot, wet heat of a mouth close around him.</p><p>His eyes flew open, finding James in the poor light of the closet, mouth spit-slick and stretched wide by Francis’s prick. He choked back the noise that wanted to escape his throat, the rattled scream of someone who was faced with the terrible reality of a wish coming true, but James wasn’t even looking at Francis; he had his eyes closed and was happily swallowing down more of Francis into that enveloping heat of his mouth and Francis was done for, curling forward as his prick twitched and he spent himself into James’s mouth. It rolled through him in waves, one after the other, Francis helpless to the fact that James wasn’t pulling off, just kept swallowing as though he was hoping to suck Francis dry. Francis clutched at his hair as he felt the pain of pleasure drawn out interminably, and even then, James didn’t seem happy about having to abandon where he sat, leaving small kisses along Francis’s length that had Francis blush.</p><p>He couldn’t look James in the eye as he put himself to rights. There was a smear of Francis’s spend in the corner of his mouth. Otherwise, he looked unruffled, still the very picture of a handsome young gentleman who was surely the life of the celebration.</p><p>Francis held out a hand, unsure where his touch might be welcome. He settled for James’s arm, a steading grip that grounded him. This was real. It had happened to him.</p><p>He wanted to kiss James again. He waited to catch the man’s eye as he fiddled with his cufflinks, then—in a moment of uncharacteristic boldness—placed a hand on the side of James’s face and turned it so that he could kiss James again. James made a surprised noise, but the tongue curling towards Francis’s mouth seemed pleased enough and soon, Francis found himself pushed back against the shelves, a breathless James rolling his hips against Francis’s while leaving sloppy kisses down Francis’s neck. Francis, oversensitive, shuddered.</p><p>
  <em>“Frank!”</em>
</p><p>There was the thundering sound of footsteps outside the supply closet that could only belong to one man, the good-natured maître d’ of the Parker House.</p><p>“Frank! Goddamnit, Jopson said he’d seen you here!”</p><p>James shook and growled, rutting faster against Francis’s leg now.</p><p>“Fitzjames,” Francis whispered. “<em>James</em>!”</p><p>“Yes, yes.”</p><p>James stepped back, and there was nothing unobtrusive about the bulge in his pants. Rather ruined the outline of that fancy suit. Francis’s prick twitched at the sight of it.</p><p>“I’ll distract him.”</p>
<hr/><p>He ambled back into the main hall not long after that, having discerned that Blanky’s suspect was no more than a courier who’d gotten lost. On his way back to the ballroom, he took a minute to stop in the Parker hall where Jane had decided to display—despite her husband’s and daughter’s protestations—the emerald.</p><p>John Franklin stood by the glass case. He turned at the sound of Francis’s footsteps. The security they’d hired stood impassively by the wall.</p><p>“Ah, Mr. Crozier. Everything in hand out there?”</p><p>Francis suppressed the urge to tug at this suit jacket. He wondered with a sinking feeling in his stomach if he was as put to rights as he should be, or if some evidence of his indiscretion with James remained on him. Too late to check now, in any case. He felt like a boy that’d had his first woman, trying to banish a grin from his face and feeling that surely the whole world must be able to see the monumental thing that had happened to him.</p><p>“Yes, quite.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing suspicious in here so far?”</p><p>Franklin shook his head. “Nothing. Though I do wish Jane had relented and spared us all the trouble. I find myself coming back every half hour to check on it.”</p><p>Francis nodded. “Very prudent.”</p><p>He left Franklin to his restless watch and made his way down the carpeted hallway back to the ballroom.</p><p>He couldn’t shake the feeling that there were eyes on him as he re-entered the room—eyes that judged his place and found him wanting, eyes that knew exactly what he’d done.</p><p>Were he a younger man, he might have snuck out with some of Blanky’s waiters for a bit of bad moonshine, though as the evening progressed, it became clear that even that would have been an unnecessary step to acquire alcohol—the stuff was abundant here. There was, however, precious little suspicious activity that was pertinent to his case. Sadly, Francis was not an officer of the law, or he would have found enough to occupy himself for a fortnight.</p><p>He caught sight of James once or twice more, always engaged in conversation, then one more time leading one of the young ladies to the dance floor. His shoes glinted in the lamplight. Francis had to look away when James smiled at something the young lady said. He had a job to do.</p>
<hr/><p>“The trick,” George explained, one finger raised in an attempt to command an audience that was, at best, half listening, “is in keeping the audience’s attention elsewhere.”</p><p>Francis had joined a crowd around George Hodgson, who was a self-described magician, though Francis had seen him perform a number of his tricks in the last half hour and had yet to be impressed. At least he’d committed to the act in dress, with a frock coat in a gaudy red that made Francis’s eyes hurt just looking at it. It was late now, most guests actively drunk, and Francis had yet to see anything related to his case.</p><p>“You must always keep your eye on—”</p><p>The light went out. It resonated with a strange, deep sound that shook the hall and made Francis’s teeth hurt. The boom was followed by silence for what felt like minutes, but was probably nothing more than mere seconds, lengthened by the mix of anticipation and dread in the pit of Francis’s stomach as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then—a cry.</p><p>He was hurrying through the crowd before his mind had even caught up, bumping into people where he went. He ignored their protestations, ignored the murmuring and fearful calls that the people took up. It was tough, getting through the mass of them—Francis could barely see, and they were starting to panic, but he reached the door that led deeper into the hotel.</p><p>Behind it, the darkness seemed even deeper.</p><p>Francis wanted to reach for his gun. He was, however, also very aware of the fact that he didn’t know what he was getting into—if there was someone in distress, Francis could very well end up shooting them for how dark it was. He took a breath to calm himself, focussed on the feeling of air in his lungs, the tension easing in his muscles as he breathed out.</p><p>The air was charged and tasted of electricity.</p><p>Francis inched forward carefully, squinting against the darkness as though that might make a difference. There was something there that set his teeth on edge—the heavy silence of someone else in the room, the deliberate lack of noise that betrayed someone’s presence as sure as footsteps did. Someone was <em>there</em>. Francis just knew it.</p><p>“Hello?” he called. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”</p><p>A clatter to his right. Francis whirled around.</p><p>“Francis?”</p><p>“<em>James</em>.”</p><p>Francis took a couple more careful steps towards the sound of James’s voice, arm outstretched, before his hand caught the fine material of James’s suit and his hand curled around James’s wrist. The clenched set of his heart eased.</p><p>“I heard someone scream,” James said, his voice a tense whisper. “I think it came from Parker hall.”</p><p>The emerald.</p><p>“Do you have a match on you?”</p><p>“Do you think if I did, I’d be stumbling around in the dark like a fool?” James sighed. “Forgive me. There’s something not quite right about this.”</p><p>The last thing Francis would have expected was an apology from James. It stunned him enough to silence him for a moment.</p><p>“Well,” he said, “Let’s go have a look.”</p><p>He held on to James as they progressed down the hallway, navigating by touch and careful movements. Eventually, James shifted his grip so that their hands intertwined, and Francis found himself in the plush halls of Parker House, holding hands with James Fitzjames. Stranger things had happened tonight, but not many.</p><p>“Door’s to the left,” Francis muttered. He found the doorknob after a minute of careful fumbling and turned it. Behind the door, it was just as dark. Francis wouldn’t have been able to locate Fitzjames by sight, even though they were standing right next to each other. Involuntarily, he tightened his hold on James’s hand.</p><p>James squeezed back.</p><p>They moved forward carefully, Francis feeling for the glass case he knew to be located in the middle of the room. It couldn’t be more than a few steps away by his reckoning, just out of his reach, perhaps a little to the—</p><p>James stumbled.</p><p>Francis caught himself just in time, letting go of James’s hand. James made a surprised noise, but he seemed to still be standing.</p><p>“Hold on,” he said, I think I found something.”</p><p>He went to his knees by the sound of it, hands patting the carpeted floor until they connected with something that was <em>not</em> carpet.</p><p>“It’s a leg.”</p><p>“You found a body?”</p><p>“Well…” James’s voice sounded small. Francis felt for his shoulder; found it.</p><p>“I think it’s just the leg.”</p><p>Francis went down next to him, following the line of James’s arm until their hands entangled over the leg, which felt disconcertingly warm. Francis felt a large shoe—Oxfords perhaps—then moved his hand upwards until—</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Mh-mh.”</p><p>From somewhere near them came a groan.</p><p>Both of them were on their feet immediately. Francis wanted to put himself between James and whatever had made the noise, a noble gesture made harder by the fact that he couldn’t quite tell where the noise had <em>come</em>from.</p><p>“Who’s there?”</p><p>“Bryant,” came the response, followed by another groan, “Think I got hit over the head.”</p><p>“What happened?” Francis demanded.</p><p>“We were… <em>oh, damn, that’s a big egg</em>… Mr Franklin had just come in to check on the emerald again when the light went out. I was going to check what had happened when there was this ripping sound, and then a scream… and then nothing.”</p><p>Francis squeezed James’s hand. “Wait here.”</p><p>“Francis…” James warned. Francis ignored him.</p><p>He made his way over to Bryant.</p><p>“Let me see the wound,” he said quietly. Bryant found his hand and guided it to the back of his head where a bit of fresh blood had plastered his hair to his skull. It <em>was</em> blood. Francis made sure of that.</p><p>“You’ll need to see a doctor about that. Can you find your way out?”</p><p>Going by the moment’s silence, Bryant must’ve nodded before saying, “I mean, yes, I can.”</p><p>He got to his feet unsteadily. Francis held his arm until he was sure the man could stand. “That’s it. Go on now.”</p><p>He waited until the footsteps had receded down the hallway.</p><p>“It wasn’t the guard,” he said decisively. He made his way back over to where he believed Fitzjames to be. A couple of more careful steps brought him to the glass case and confirmed what he’d already suspected—the emerald was gone.</p><p>“Do you think—” James cleared his throat. “You don’t think that—”</p><p>“—that that’s Franklin down there?” Francis shrugged, more for his benefit than James’s. “The shoes fit.”</p><p>James exhaled shakily. “We have to find Jane.”</p><p>“Wasn’t she outside?”</p><p>The last time Francis had seen her, she’d been with her daughter and her niece, giving an impassioned speech to a local councillor.</p><p>“I saw her leave the room. I thought she was going to check on John since he couldn’t leave the blasted stone alone… <em>Oh God</em>.”</p><p>“We’ll find her,” Francis said in a tone that forestalled any argument. “Let’s check back in the hallway and then work our way through the rooms from there.”</p><p>He reached for James’s hand again. The weight of it in his hand felt natural.</p><p>“There’s something off about this, Francis. I can feel it,” James said as they made their careful way to the door. Francis decided that, for the sake of their newfound peace, he would not comment on that.</p>
<hr/><p>The darkness of the hall was something manifest, more impenetrable than a mere absence of light would seem to warrant. Francis made his way forward carefully, his right hand firmly clasping James’s. He had strong hands. Large, the skin soft and dry. It was a hand that was pleasing to hold—a good weight, a reassuring grasp.</p><p>Francis kept his left hand on the wall.</p><p>The lights remained stubbornly dark. Francis wondered if, even now, Parker House’s janitors were working on the fuse box, trying to restore the electricity. The thought was a comforting one, and he held in his mind, to quiet the part of him that just wanted to run back out to where there were at least <em>people</em>. It bothered Francis that no one else had come to see what the scream had been about.</p><p>Fear drew out the length of the hallway, made the way to the next door seem longer than it could realistically be. It took them more time than it should have to reach it. Francis’s heart skipped a beat when his fingers caught the frame, and he squeezed James’s hand.</p><p>“Let’s check in here,” he told him.</p><p>He should have taken more time to memorise the layout of Parker House. It had been arrogant to think that he could cover his bases with security at the doors and Blanky’s eyes on the conspicuously unguarded servant’s entrance. From what he could remember, there were smoking rooms and a small library back here, but the precise layout evaded him.</p><p>“Really wish we had some light,” James mumbled crossly.</p><p>“What, your third eye can’t see in the dark?”</p><p>Francis felt the withering heat of James’s glare, even though it was decidedly too dark to see.</p><p>The queer charged smell of electricity was less strong behind this door. It was oppressive in the hallway, compared to this room, and Francis set two careful steps forward, hearing their echo thrown back at him from the room.</p><p>“Jane?” he called out, not expecting an answer but giving it a try for completeness’s sake more than anything else.</p><p>“Let’s do a lap of the room, take one wall each,” he suggested when no reply came. “We’ll meet on the other side.”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>Francis felt his way along the edges carefully, mindful to never take his hand off the wall. Something about that felt like a bad idea.</p><p>His hand followed a line of bookshelves, leather-bound spines dry and soft under his fingers. He found the mantle over the fireplace. From across the room, James called again, “Jane?”, but received no response. On the far side of the room, Francis’s fingers trailed over the cool glass of the windows. He could hear the soft patter of rain and tried to peer outside, but was greeted only by more darkness. Was the power out on the entire block?</p><p>He startled when a hand reached for him, but it was only James, his fingers grasping Francis’s hand with reassuring steadiness. “Nothing here,” he said, and Francis concurred. “Let’s try the next room.”</p>
<hr/><p>Time lost its meaning in the all-encompassing darkness. Realistically, Francis knew they couldn’t have been searching rooms for more than ten, fifteen minutes, but it felt like much more without a watch to check. They searched three more rooms on Francis’s side of the hallway, all similar in layout to the first. They found no sign of Jane, or indeed of anyone else.</p><p>“Are you sure she’s even back here?” Francis hissed when they had made their grasping, shuffling way into the hall. They had taken to whispering, like they were afraid of something in the shadows overhearing, and though Francis’s rational mind scolded him for it he kept on.</p><p>“I am <em>sure</em>,” James retorted, “I <em>was</em> supposed to protect her, after all.”</p><p>There was a bitter taste to his voice, and Francis realised that James was likely blaming himself.</p><p>“What would you have done against a curse, anyway?”</p><p>James scoffed, a quiet exhale of breath through his nose. Francis could picture it perfectly: how those nostrils on James’s long, aristocratic nose would flare, how James would look at him with a face of disdain even as Francis couldn’t help but want him.</p><p>“Please don’t mock me, Francis.”</p><p>“I—”</p><p>Francis had to stop and disentangle himself from a potted plant that had appeared in his path. Its leaves were strangely clammy—sticky, almost.</p><p>“That wasn’t my intention.”</p><p>Another scoff. “That would be a first.”</p><p>Francis kept his mouth shut after that.</p><p>They found the next door.</p><p>Francis felt a surge of anxiety, letting go of James’s hand, like something about it was final. He wanted to call out to James, call him back, but James was already moving away—Francis could hear his footsteps fading and steeled himself.</p><p>His fingers trailed over wallpaper—painted, going by the rigged feeling under the pads of his fingers. He placed careful step after careful step. After a while, the wooden floor gave way to carped, dampening his steps. He stopped.</p><p>“James?” he called.</p><p>James’s footsteps had grown quieter as well.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>His voice sounded wrong—farther away than Francis would have expected from how long they’d walked.</p><p>“Where are you?”</p><p>“Over here,” James called. Perhaps it was Francis’s imagination, but he thought he could hear a touch of uncertainty in James’s voice. Francis wanted to call him back. He did not.</p><p>“Be careful,” he called, then set off again.</p><p>It was strange: the room was longer than Francis would have expected. Larger, certainly, than the way they had walked down the hallway would warrant, and he had yet to come to the first corner of the room. There was a chill to the air that put Francis in the mind of a cathedral, cold and cavernous.</p><p>“James?” he called again. He held his breath, for five long seconds, ten long seconds, waiting—</p><p>“<em>James</em>!” he called, louder.</p><p>Then, from the distance, barely audible— “<em>Francis</em>?”</p><p>He sounded like he was miles away. His voice didn’t echo, though it should have, if the room was that large.</p><p>“Turn around,” Francis yelled, “Turn around, now, James, damnit.”</p><p>He was already running, his feet falling heavily on the floor, thundering back towards where he hoped the exit still was—a distinct part of him was suddenly not entirely sure there still would be an exit. His breath burned in his lungs.</p><p>“Francis,” James called from somewhere ahead of him, sounding closer but still far away, and Francis found some strength in himself he hadn’t previously known about. His legs ached. Fear threatened to close his throat.</p><p>Then the carpet disappeared, and he was running on wood again, and shortly after he heart James’s steps fall on the wood as well and then he was <em>there</em>, the wool of his suit soft under Francis’s fingers and his lips warm on Francis’s. Francis pressed him into the wall, hoping to perhaps keep James by his side if he moulded their mouths together with enough care. James grasped at his arms; pulling him close.</p><p>Francis only managed to pull away with an exceptional show of will and strength.</p><p>“Let’s get out of this room.”</p><p>He could hear James breathing heavily still. “Yes,” he said, “Let’s.”</p>
<hr/><p>“We shouldn’t still be walking down this hallway.”</p><p>Francis had given this a lot of consideration over the last minutes. It was possible that his sense of time was altered by the darkness, but he was sure that they had been in here for half an hour at least and had been walking down the hallway for most of that time. It should be impossible. Parker House wasn’t that large.</p><p>“You’re right.”</p><p>As far as answers went, this wasn’t the one Francis had hoped to receive from James.</p><p>“How long did you suspect something?”</p><p>There was a self-deprecating twist to James’s voice when he answered. “A while ago. There’s something… off about this whole thing. But I didn’t want you to laugh at me.”</p><p>Francis couldn’t entirely blame him—even now he felt a desire to shrug it off, make a joke at James’s expense. A medium. And he was the one that was walking down a seemingly endless hallway with Francis.</p><p>“What is this place, then?”</p><p>“I have no idea,” James said. He didn’t sound entirely displeased.</p><p>“Has this happened to you before?”</p><p>When James stilled, Francis first thought it in response to his question, but then James was dragging him to the side of the hallway. Francis opened his mouth, ready to protest, but James pressed a hand to it just as he pressed Francis against the side of the hallway.</p><p>Francis’s prick stirred, unbidden, from the memory of them pressed together earlier.</p><p>“There’s something—” James’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Hold still.”</p><p>There was terror in James’s voice. Francis’s hand curled into James’s side, holding on tightly to his suit. He didn’t know what James had reacted to—there was only the darkness around them, Francis could not make out anything more than that: it was unchanging, impenetrable and oppressive.</p><p>Then he felt it.</p><p>It shifted suddenly, like a dark night in the mountains: The realisation that one was not looking at a cloudy night sky, but the hulking shape of a cliffside, much closer and much larger than a mind could comprehend. There was <em>something</em> out there, and it was moving.</p><p>Francis’s breath shallowed. He tightened his grip on James, grateful beyond measure that the other man was there—surely without him, he would have lost his mind then and there. There was no sound, but Francis could feel the presence of the thing, whatever it was, moving slowly down the hallway. James pressed his forehead against the wall next to Francis’s head, and Francis could feel him shaking. He couldn’t say how long they stood there, pinned against the wall while something they could not see, hear, or smell moved about.</p><p>When it lifted, it did so suddenly—an easing of pressure on his lungs, a rush of relief that left Francis lightheaded and panting, leaning against James.</p><p>“What <em>was</em> that?”</p><p>“You felt it?” James asked. He seemed surprised—relieved and worried in equal measure, like he was glad he was not alone in having felt it, but also terrified by the implications of that.</p><p>“I—” Francis ran his hands over his face. “I can’t describe it.”</p><p>“Yes, I often find—”</p><p>Whatever James had been about to say was interrupted by a voice—as of yet faint, but clear as day to both of them, heightened as their awareness was.</p><p>“Hello? Who’s there?”</p><p>“Jane,” Francis said. They started running.</p>
<hr/><p>They were in a room that looked like every other room they had explored this evening, and it was only now that Francis found himself disturbed by that. Very little, if anything about this, was natural.</p><p>“Jane?” Francis called, and James piped in with a “Mrs. Franklin?”</p><p>“Over here!”</p><p>They both rushed forward, arms outstretched until Francis met the shaking hands of Jane Franklin, crouched on the floor of the empty room.</p><p>“Who is—”</p><p>“Francis,” said Francis, “James is with me.”</p><p>“Where’s—” Jane’s voice shook only a little as they helped her to her feet. “I was going to see where John was, but I couldn’t find him, and then everything went dark.”</p><p>Francis closed his eyes. There was a weight on his lungs again. “Let’s get you out of here first.”</p>
<hr/><p>They stumbled from the hallway into the brightly lit ballroom, Francis clutching James’s hand and James supporting Jane on his left arm. The light hurt Francis’s eyes, and he had to shield them and avert his face. Only his grasp on James’s hand kept him upright.</p><p>Someone rushed to their side. Jane was escorted away. Francis fended off questions from law enforcement. James smiled and said something winsome, and the guests who were still gathered around laughed. Everything was bright and loud and, in a strange way, just as unreal as the endless hallway had been.</p><p>And then they were in a taxi.  </p><p>He was still holding James’s hand, he realised as the ringing in his ears slowly subsided and he slipped back into his body. Confused, he looked up at James, who smiled despite the dark shadows under his eyes.</p><p>“Do you feel better?”</p><p>Francis must’ve frowned. James covered Francis’s hand in his with his other hand. “You went very quiet for a while. I think you were in shock.”</p><p>“Oh,” Francis said. He didn’t know what else to say. Had somebody asked him, he would have said that he simply felt—nothing at all, really, as though the place in him that felt things had been hollowed out by the night’s events.</p><p>“Jane… is Jane alright?”</p><p>“They took her to the hospital, though she appeared unharmed.”</p><p>Francis breathed out a sigh of relief. “And John?”</p><p>James shook his head. “They found his body, missing a leg. No explanation as to how it was… separated from the rest of his body.”</p><p>Francis wanted to throw up. He focussed very hard, because their cab driver did not deserve that.</p><p>“The leg?”</p><p>James shook his head. “They couldn’t find it.”</p><p>Francis closed his eyes. He realised he was shaking, minute tremors running through his limbs that did not want to abate, no matter how sternly he focussed on them. It was as though his body had risen up in mutiny against him.</p><p>“Francis,” James said, one thumb tracing patterns on Francis’s hand, “Would you like to come to my place? I think it’s better not to be alone tonight.”</p><p>Francis concurred.</p>
<hr/><p>Francis had seen images of James’s lodgings, or at least his living room, before. It had been in the papers once or twice, always connected with a séance, and Francis had read the whole article before scoffing and tossing it away, moaning on to Ross or Jopson about how low the whole world had sunk if <em>mediums</em> made the news these days, instead of respectable investigators like him. It did his friends credit that they had never pointed out just how thin his veneer of respectability ran.</p><p>It didn’t look quite so ostentatious in person.</p><p>The walls—which, on the black-and-white newspaper plates, were always draped in some rich fabrics—were plain and light, making the room larger than it seemed in the pictures. The table was heavy—so that no one could accuse him of rattling it, James explained, he was no cheap trickster—and dark, dominating the room, but without the drapes about, it merely lent a pleasant weight to the room, grounding it.</p><p>“No food to be had, I’m afraid,” James said, “I’m a terrible cook. But I can make us some tea, if you’d like.”</p><p>Francis didn’t think he could rightly stomach anything, but tea did sound like a good idea, if for no other reason that he longed for warmth after the damp and dark of the hallway.</p><p>“Sounds lovely,” he said.</p><p>He waited at the table while James putzed around in the kitchen, humming to himself some dance tune that Francis had never heard and likely would never hear again. Then he found himself considering the image of attending a club with James, the Lighthouse perhaps, where two men might enjoy a night of dancing together without drawing queer looks, and forgot all about his terror for a while as he wondered if James would be patient with him, stumbling over his own feet as he was prone to do, if James would kiss him in a darkened corner, how he would smile—</p><p>“Peppermint,” James announced as he set a cup down in front of Francis, “It’s good for the nerves, or so I’ve heard.”</p><p>He chose the chair next to Francis, resting a hand atop Francis’s thigh easily, as though such a gesture was perfectly natural.</p><p>The tea was hot. Francis wrapped his fingers around the cup, feeling warmth to the point of scorching. Another piece of the tremor eased out of his body.</p><p>“Have you—have you experienced such a thing before?”</p><p>James made a contemplative noise, a quiet humming sound behind his teacup. Steam curled in front of his face until he blew it away.</p><p>“I cannot say for sure. These experiences have a way of… eluding classification. Though I will say I have experienced the odd queer event that beggars belief afterwards.”</p><p>“Is it always like… this?”</p><p>James squeezed Francis’s thigh, and the touch thrilled Francis, but it also comforted him.</p><p>“There was one time—ah, but it was strange. It was at this very table, with Dundy and the members of a respectable family I shall not name. They were reaching out to a dead uncle or somesuch over an inheritance dispute, if you can believe it. Thought the court might accept a posthumous amendment.”</p><p>He snorted, as did Francis.</p><p>“In any case, I did my part and was sure that I had established a contact when I heard this—I suppose you could call it laughter, but it lacked almost everything except the sound. It was sinister. And yet I found myself laughing along. I was laughing so hard; I couldn’t stop, and one by one the others joined in. I was crying, but I couldn’t stop laughing. My muscles hurt, that’s how long it went on. One of the guests threw up. Above it all was the sound of our laughter, and it, too, sounded more and more sinister to my ears.”</p><p>James put down his cup and passed a hand over his face.</p><p>“Dundy collapsed and his hand slipped out of mine, which saved us, in the end. Needless to say, I did not get paid, and I’ve been a lot more careful since.”</p><p>Just a day ago, Francis would have declared the story utter nonsense. Now, he was not so sure.</p><p>“You saved Jane tonight,” he said, “Me too, probably.”</p><p>James scoffed. “Half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing. Someone like you could have walked right past most ghosts and apparitions and never see anything amiss. That’s a <em>blessing</em>, Francis.”</p><p>“I’m inclined to believe you.” He shook his head. “And the emerald is still gone! At least one of us fulfilled their contract tonight, even if it wasn’t me.”</p><p>“I quite forgot about the emerald.” There was a spark in James’s eyes. “It seemed like something else was occupying your attention for most of the night.”</p><p>“Are you accusing me of something, Fitzjames? Draw your pistol at once, and we shall settle his like men.”</p><p>James leaned into Francis’s space, placing his lips to Francis’s ear in a conspiratorial whisper. “I’d rather draw something else.”</p><p>Francis gasped when James’s hand on his thigh wandered higher, tracing the outline of his prick in his trousers. The traitorous thing jumped at the touch, and Francis could feel it harden with embarrassing eagerness. His eyes slipped shut and head tipped back, revealing a neck that James immediately leaned in to kiss.</p><p>“I didn’t get to look my fill earlier,” James mumbled against his skin. His breath was hot, his stubbled cheek drawing shivers from Francis he was helpless to suppress.</p><p>“Christ, <em>ah</em>—” Francis panted, “Your bed, then, James, come on—”</p><p>James’s laughter was crystal clear as he rose, drawing Francis with him. Francis’s cheeks coloured as he saw the size of the stand tenting his trousers, but surely James didn’t mind, not if the eagerness with which he’d taken Francis into his mouth earlier was anything to go by. Besides, he seemed to be sporting a similar stand, chuckling when he caught Francis eyeing it.</p><p>“You can do more than look when we’re in bed,” he said, and laughed some more when Francis nearly toppled over in his haste to follow him.</p><p>Francis did not take in much of the layout of James’s bedroom, besides the location of a chair that he piled his clothes on and the softness of the sheets as James crawled backwards on the bed, drawing Francis atop him. James was kissing him hungrily, plunging his tongue deep into Francis’s mouth, drawing forward from Francis all manner of embarrassing noises he would rather keep bottled inside.</p><p>“Will you let me have you?” James panted when they broke their kiss, “I must have you, Francis, Christ—”</p><p>He whined as Francis seized his prick in a firm hold, squeezing it slowly and with deliberation. “<em>Please</em>—”</p><p>Francis thought of sirens, spiriting men to their deaths with nothing but the sound of their voices. James had such a voice—whenever he pleaded, whatever he suggested, Francis was helpless to it. “Yes.”</p><p>James took Francis’s face between his hands, framed it with a loving gentleness that Francis would have called misplaced—they were both men, damnit, not prone to breaking at a harsher touch—but one he succumbed to wholly nonetheless. He couldn’t help it. James brought it out in him.</p><p>James—still dressed in his shirt and tie, though trouserless, and in socks—only drew back when Francis was trembling again, harder than before. He rolled away from under Francis, and pulled off his tie with a boyish smile, one that Francis returned, though close-mouthed.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re here,” James said, “I’m glad you didn’t come to me at the Lighthouse. You deserve a bed. You deserve to be spoiled, Francis.”</p><p>He climbed atop Francis with a slow crawl, even as Francis scoffed. “You already have me in your bed.” James frowned, and Francis added. “There’s no need to flatter me.”</p><p>James, a man who hated losing an argument, particularly against Francis, seized Francis’s prick—Francis moaned, then bit his lip in embarrassment. James fixed him with his fiercest glare. “I should think anyone in possession of such a fine prick is above any need for being <em>flattered</em>.”</p><p>“Christ.” Francis threw an arm over his shoulder. “If you want to fuck me, just get on with it.”</p><p>“You might chide me for my bad taste after I bed you if you think so lowly of yourself.”</p><p>James kept working his prick, and Francis felt the hot burn of a blush bloom on his face and chest. Surely James would not torture him so cruelly for long? He certainly seemed patient enough, keeping his grasp firm, noting with satisfaction how Francis’s hips kept thrusting into the encircling tightness of his hand. Then he bent down and flicked his tongue over the tip. When he followed it with a pleased hum, Francis cursed.</p><p>“You don’t have—You don’t need to prove something to me, James, just—” He took a deep breath. “—<em>fuck me</em>.”</p><p>James paused, mouth hovering over Francis’s prick, hanging open so invitingly that it took all of Francis’s remaining willpower not to seize James by the hair and thrust into it. His prick remembered the divine heat of it well. Strange to think that James had transformed him from a man who could scarcely look at another to this covetous creature, over the span of a mere evening. Perhaps shock had played its part—Francis certainly didn’t feel like himself, but he’d also never felt more <em>alive</em>.</p><p>Then James drew back, swiping the hair out of his face as he went. He rummaged around in the drawer of his nightstand as Francis pulled himself to sit up against the headboard, watching James and the alluring panes of his body as he came back to Francis.</p><p>“This may be easier if you—ah.”</p><p>“If I turn around?” Francis was already moving until he was seated with his backside in the air, presenting it to James, a strangely vulnerable position. It thrilled him, deep in his gut. “Is it good like this?”</p><p>James ran a hand over Francis’s back. “Just perfect,” he announced, and though he was talking about nothing more than Francis’s half-knowledge of how it might be to be fucked by another man, Francis blushed.</p><p>“You’ll tell me if I hurt you.”</p><p>“I will,” Francis reassured him. It felt odd, to be treated with such care, but there was a secret part of Francis that revelled in it—the knowledge that James had him, that James was taking care of him. He’d never been cared for like this: intimately, without having to worry about giving something back.</p><p>James kissed Francis’s back, the stubble of his chin once again tickling Francis in places he hadn’t known to be so sensitive. His touches calmed the eager, anxious part of Francis that wanted to forge ahead carelessly. He barely tensed when Fitzjames slipped his finger inside, probing forward. James rose up on his knees as he pressed his finger further in, reaching around to wrap a lose fist around Francis’s prick.</p><p>Francis let out a breathless laugh. He felt boneless, weightless, but also tethered to his body in every place where James was touching him. He closed his eyes when James’s lips traced the line of his spine, the touch gentler than anything Francis thought he could bear. But he bore it.</p><p>The room was quiet save for the sound of Francis’s breathing, loud to his own ears, and the frantic mutterings of James as Francis opened up to another finger. James pressed his forehead against Francis’s back, breathing heavily. “You’ve no idea how much I want you.”</p><p>Francis—trapped, held open by James and his long fingers, cradled safely in James’s fist—laughed weakly. “Don’t make me wait, then.”</p><p>James pulled out his fingers, placing a chaste kiss over Francis’s hole that had Francis’s face burn nevertheless. James ran a hand over his spine.</p><p>“It might be—I would like to, if I can—I would like to see you, Francis.” He hesitated as Francis shifted. “Would you turn around for me?”</p><p>Francis took a heavy breath, braced himself for the vision of James with his cheeks reddened and his hair mussed. Then he nodded. “Yes.”</p><p>They rearranged themselves, Francis’s eyes never once wavering from James’s face, even as James slicked up his prick—a wonderful instrument, to be sure, but Francis was captivated by the look on James’s face, the half-crazed smile that would not waver, plain proof that James felt just as incredulously lucky that Francis was in his bed. He took a hold of Francis’s leg when he had readied himself, and pushed in at a measured pace, little circles of his hips slowly making room for himself in Francis’s body.</p><p>“Oh,” he said at length, “<em>Oh</em>.”</p><p>Francis wanted to laugh again, for he had rarely ever felt so completely at peace as in this moment—it burned, to be sure, and the stretch of it was inexorable, but to be joined with James like this was more exquisite than he could have pictured. James remembered himself halfway through, seizing Francis’s prick and tugging at it even as he worked himself further into Francis’s body with abortive little thrusts. From then on, it was over for Francis—he canted his hips so as to receive more of James, and James gave it to him gladly, and then they fell together on the bed, rutting against each other.</p><p>“Should have known you would be like this,” James murmured in Francis’s ear as Francis wrapped his legs around Fitzjames to bring him closer, “You’re so—so <em>hot</em>, Francis, so tight—”</p><p>Francis groaned, feeling filthy, feeling desired, scrambling for James’s cheek to tilt his face upwards into a kiss. James was breathless from his exertions already, panting into Francis’s mouth as he thrust into Francis with unerring precision. Francis had expected nothing less than an exceptional performance from someone who was so concerned with his image, and he was not disappointed.</p><p>James pulled out suddenly, sitting up on his knees and yanking Francis with him in a surprising show of strength. Francis yelped as James took a hold of his own prick and guided himself back inside Francis, holding Francis up by the waist with his other. The new angle had him slip deeper, thrust harder, and Francis grunted when, on the next thrust, James hit that bundle of nerves which could bring so much pleasure to this act. He could feel a tear running down his cheek as though punched out of him by the force of James’s thrusts and wanted to bury his face in the pillow, but he was laid bare before James—James, who looked at him with unabashed want on his face, who guided Francis’s hand to his own prick, then groaned when he saw Francis touching himself.</p><p>To be so desired—Francis had never experienced it, but he realised with a start that he could grow accustomed to it. He would open himself up for James whichever way the man wanted: his mouth, his arse, he’d find a thousand ways to please him, just to be looked at like that one more time. He could feel himself nearing the precipice, filled up to the brim by James as he was.</p><p>“Don’t stop,” he panted, “Don’t stop, James, I’m—”</p><p>“Yes,” James near howled, “Yes Francis, I want t—want to feel y—<em>Oh God</em>.”</p><p>His last words came out strangled as Francis’s body seized up, his climax wrung from him with a hitherto unknown force, as he twitched and shook under James who could barely keep up his rhythm, held fast by Francis’s spasming body. One hand let go of Francis’s hip to join Francis’s hand working his prick; Francis sensitive and near tears but glad, so glad at the feeling of these long fingers that he found himself pulsing to life once more, a second wave of pleasure running hot through his body as James’s thrusts became abortive. Francis felt the burn and stretch of James’s prick, hot and hard and buried deep inside him, and then he felt the release of James’s climax as it pulsed out of him, hot and slick inside of Francis.</p><p>“Oh God,” James panted, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”</p><p>His hips kept moving, mouth hanging open as he let himself go, Francis only pressing his hand and feeling a shiver wrack through him.</p><p>Eventually, he stopped shaking, and his eyes blinked open. “Tha—that was—”</p><p>He ran a hand over his face, then looked down at the place where they were still joined, where a thin rivulet of James’s seed was leaking out of Francis’s body despite how well James had stoppered him up. “I’ve half a mind to stay here.”</p><p>Francis’s prick twitched optimistically at that. “I’ve half a mind to let you.”</p><p>James laughed as he pulled out, a wet and slick sensation that was strange but not wholly unpleasant. “Francis Crozier,” he said, “You may be the death of me yet.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am also on <a href="https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/veganthranduil">twitter</a>. If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving me a comment!</p><p>Thank you also to the mods who organised a great exchange. I haven't felt so much excitement since February.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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